Janet Cardiff, running downstairs to the drawing-room from the top story of the house in Kensington Square with the knowledge that a new American girl, who wrote very clever things about pictures, awaited her there, tried to remember just what sort of description John Kendal had given of her visitor.

Her recollection was vague as to detail; she could not anticipate a single point with certainty, perhaps because she had not paid particular attention at the time.

She had been given a distinct impression that she might expect to be interested, however, which accounted for her running downstairs.

Nothing hastened Janet Cardiff's footsteps more than the prospect of anybody interesting.

She and her father declared that it was their great misfortune to be thoroughly respectable, it cut them off from so much.